(123-08-29) Cake Walk
Cake Walk
Summary: Lady Eleanor takes on the unlikely company of Sal in the name of food.
Date: 29/08/2016ish
Related: Immediately follows Balls


Eleanor ignores the uncouth man and focuses on the performer instead, brow furrowing slightly. "Well, however am I supposed to learn of your performances if you don't have a name?" she points out, slightly irked. "Surely you must have some name? What do your friends call you?"

"Nothin'," the performer answers with a hint of bitterness not directed at Eleanor — but realizes being obstinate will get her nowhere. "Fuck," she sighs, almost laughing, unapologetic for her foul language. After a considering, suspicious look at the lady, she answers. "It's Sal." She sidelines toward the merchant's precious crate — or rather, where it used to be, for he's confiscated it and left her empty little coin bowl behind. She tosses it into her juggling array before half-bending a knee and offering it up to Eleanor as a lord might offer a lady a kiss to the hand. "A coin a question," she suggests with a charismatic grin, looking mischievous in her hope.

Eleanor raises an eyebrow at the foul language, but she doesn't exactly look offended. If anything, she still looks fairly entertained. "Well, Sal. You can call me Eleanor for today, but don't tell any of your friends," she warns, with a little smirk. The minor mischief earns an actual laugh, and she rolls her eyes. But then, she slips a hand into a hidden pocket at her waist and produces a coin to drop into the bowl with a musical clatter. "I'm bored with this place. And positively famished. Where can we get a proper meal around here?" After considering that for a second, she supplies a second coin to join the first. Coin a question, after all.

Sal looks positively pleased with herself as the coin clatters into the bowl. "Don't go tellin' your friends mine either, hey? Fair's fair, Eleanor!" Her tone is all a joke, but she actually looks the lady right in the eye this time when she says it, a fleeting intensity in her own eyes. They turn out to be a hazy green. "If I knew where to get a proper meal, d'you think I'd be here?" she posits, but pauses to actually consider, jolting her head to one side. "I walked past one of those fancy cake houses in Hightower Square." Chances are she wasn't in Hightower Square long before being edged out for looking like she might steal something. "Sweets're a proper meal, if you ask me."

Eleanor smirks a little. "Hightower Square, was it?" She considers a moment, looking Sal down and up, and then sighs a little. "Well, we can't go to a cake shop looking like this. Come along, we'll find you something proper to wear. And then we shall have cake, if that's what you like." And off she goes, sailing along through the crowd in search of an appropriate merchant, apparently fully expecting Sal to tag along.

Sal gives Eleanor the same look she gave Loryn, although it's directed at the back of her head. There's a lengthy pause before she hesitantly scurries after the lady. "Don't you know? I'm the height of fashion in these parts," she boasts with a wave of her billowing undershirt sleeve, which is threadbare in places and yellowing at the gathered collar. A joke, but there's a worried edge to her voice beneath the bravado. She tags behind at a distance.

"Well, we aren't going to stay in these parts, are we? We're going to Hightower square," Eleanor replies, her mood noticeably lifted. She glances over her shoulder with a little grin, and then adds, "The next time I want to blend in while standing on a crate next to a rude vegetable merchant, I'll know who to ask, won't I?" She stops at a stall to look over some various wares, then glances back to Sal again, giving her a closer, slightly more solemn look. "Oh, don't look so terrified. It's not as though I'm taking you home with me. Here, pick something out," she directs, waving Sal toward the displays.

Sal firms her jaw and shifts it from side to side, the muscle popping out from her otherwise slim, angular face. She assesses the display thoroughly, but ultimately shrugs and just points at something red with the hand still clutching the trio of juggling balls. She jabs her finger at Eleanor next. "Is this funny to you?" she presses, lifting a pair of dark brows animatedly. "'Cause if it is that's all well 'n' good," she says, her not-quite-from-around-here accent coming through stronger, "but I don't want no charity."

Eleanor snorts faintly, and shakes her head. "It's not charity, my dear. It's self-defense. My reputation is soiled enough without picking jugglers up out of the gutter and dragging them into cake shops, dust and all." She picks up the red that was pointed to, and holds it up to Sal, considering the effect. "Mm. Well, I suppose that ought to do. Here, find a place to change," she hands it over, then digs into the hidden pocket for money to pay to merchant.

There's a definite moment in which the performer looks good and ready to disagree with Eleanor's logic, but keeps quiet on the matter. She gives the noblewoman an open-mouthed smile of incredulity, holds her hands up and looks around Oldtown Square as if to exemplify the absurdity of finding any place to change in this busy mess. This, too, she reconsiders, after an over-dramatic roll of her eyes. "Alright, alright," she says, tucking the balls, bowl, and coin away, grabbing the garment a strolling off. "There's a little space by that butcher shop by the Shambles. Don't follow me, my reputation's soiled enough without picking ladies up out've the gutter 'n' dragging them into alleys, fancy dresses and all, hey?" She gives another of those toothy grins, too amused with her mimicry.

She does just as she says: she disappears into a little space between buildings without disappearing totally with the garment paid for by Eleanor. There's a slew of cursewords that may or may not carry. When she tromps back out to the lady, she might as well be another person. The red dress is long-sleeved and high-collared, covering her undershirt, hiding the trousers and apron-like skirt she wore, and though it is not remotely as fine as Eleanor's, it does transform Sal into something of a vaguely respectable-looking woman. She's tied her dark hair back with a cord of leather, and it goes a long way in making her look lovelier — if not softer. To say nothing of the smell of likely not having a proper bath for awhile. The belt and rough-and-tumble leather men's shirt she had on moments ago certainly couldn't fit under the dress, but they're nowhere to be seen. She holds her hands out theatrically. "Almost like I'm a girl, eh? Eh, not bad? Good enough to maintain your pretty reputation?"

Eleanor rolls her eyes but stays behind. She's still waiting where Sal left her when the girl returns, and she glances over with a slow smile and a clearly satisfied expression. "That is much better. Not that my reputation has been /pretty/ for some time…" She gives the dress one more look, and then nods a little and gestures in an appropriate direction. "You should take Lord Tyrell's offer to perform, but do look out for him. He likes to wander about without his trousers," she offers, out of the blue.

Sal snorts laughter at that assessment, but shakes her head. "Nah," she says — regardless of Loryn's trousers or lack thereof. "The stage's no place for me." Funny, because she certainly becomes quite the actor as they walk. She holds herself differently with the dress on. Holds herself like another person. Like a lady. Her strides had already been long and confident, but now they're carefully paced. Her shoulders are set back, straight, no slouch. Her chin is raised high, noble. She falls in step with Eleanor as if she belongs there. Where the simplicity of her wardrobe lacks in authenticity, she fills in the gaps herself. At a glance, not close enough to glimpse the dirt, few are likely to question that she deserves to be in the company of a highborn lady. "Can't imagine why you'd have an ugly reputation," she says, amused, "the likes of you. The kind've lady who cuts down poor unsuspectin' merchants in the market."

Eleanor smirks faintly. "No one cares what the merchants think," she claims, dismissively. "Except perhaps the other merchants, and who cares what they think?" She watches Sal askance as they watch, taking in the highborn act. "I should think the stage would be a fine place for such a talent. But I suppose it /might/ earn one a particular reputation. A pity."

Sal just shrugs, a harsh little downturn of one side of her mouth adding to the dismissal. As they stroll further away from Oldtown Square, the crush of people eases. "Is it popular?" she asks drably, perhaps playing down her interest in the theatre. "The Whimsical whatever-the-fuck."

Eleanor considers the question for a moment, and then lifts a shoulder. "I suppose it must be. I'll admit I haven't been myself, but I don't get out much." She keeps walking, relaxing somewhat as the crush of people recedes.

Sal looks down, but bobs her head back up to proper posture the second her chin starts to tip down in thought. She's ready with a smirk so lively and full of rascality it threatens to shatter her image. "No wonder you're so bored," she points out, spinning around to momentarily walk backwards in order to watch Eleanor. She's getting better at not avoiding her eye. "You're lookin' for adventure. Oh yeah, I see it."

Eleanor smirks a little, watching Sal with some amusement. "Adventure? Am I?" she wonders, with a touch of faux innocence. She smoothes her skirt a bit as she walks, but there's a certain impish amusement in her expression. "I don't know about that. I think I would settle for entertainment."

"Oh, no, you are," the transformed lowborn woman says with certainty — or maybe it's all for show, for entertainment. She smiles so big the apples of her cheeks just about squish her gleaming eyes. "Fact, I'd bet a coin on it." She falls back in stride with Eleanor. "Can't very well entertain you in this getup you've got me in now, can I," she blatantly pretends to complain, tossing her arms in the air in a gesture of empty-handed juggling.

Eleanor shakes her head a little, pressing her lips together demurely, but there's definitely a spark of laughter in her expression. Leaving aside the subject of whether or not she's seeking adventure, she remarks, "You'd be surprised what might entertain me. For instance, I'm rather curious who taught you to walk and stand like a lady."

"Well, that one's too obvious! Hardly worth a coin." The chastising is rife with easygoing amusement-until Sal juts her expression down in half a frown, considering the possibility that she's talked herself out of a potential coin. Apparently forgotten or forgiven by the time she waves a hand at Eleanor a second later. "Ladies did," she answers. A shrug, more subtle this time. Beacon Boulevard leads the way to Hightower Square, the respectability of the city growing by the minute. "Of a sort. Only takes a bit've watching."

Eleanor snorts faintly. "So you just figured it out on your own, clever thing," she teases, mildly, still walking at the sedate pace she'd set from the beginning. "And I suppose that's how you learned to juggle, too. Watching people."

Upon being called clever, the performer's wide grin is well on the way to becoming cocky. It falls just short, dissipating at the last moment. "Nah, I think I just sort've figured it out. Had to, y'know?" A glance at Eleanor supposes she doesn't know, but Sal shrugs that off too. "I remember seein' someone carrying on like bloody fool on the street, throwing all kinds of shit up in the air. People were clapping for 'im, and I thought, hey, I can be a juggling idiot too. Always had quick hands."

Eleanor tilts her head a little, rather looking like she might know, at that, but once again she keeps her thoughts on the matter to herself to focus on more interesting topics. "I don't think I'd be quick enough to figure it out on my own," she comments, with a quiet little laugh. "But it certainly looks like fun."

"Oh, it takes practice," Sal assures. "There's a lot've hitting yourself in the eye before ya get the feel've it. Harder than walking like a lady." She thrusts her shoulders back and her chest out and strides dramatically with her arms held aloft at her sides in a farce of elegance. She's certain to glance at the legitimate noble lady for reaction to her antics.

Eleanor watches Sal with her impression and for a moment there's an almost stunned look, which might give the impression that she's offended. Then, she dissolves into a giggle that she hides behind a hand but can't stifle completely. "Oh, that's very good. You know, I know a stuck up lady or two that I'd pay you a good many coins to follow around doing that impression…"

Sal dissolves into (markedly inelegant) laughter rather than a giggle, and so does her theatrics. Not quite giving her legitimate impression of an elegant lady a hundred percent, here, but at least she's got the real walk down. "Now that's a noble bloody cause," she replies, tickled and giving Eleanor a rather approving look for her humour. "Seems to me they're here in droves. First 'n' last time I was in Hightower Square." Until imminently, that is.

Eleanor shakes her head, smirking faintly. "Yes, well. This is where most well-bred young ladies are supposed to want to be, or so I'm told," she remarks, vaguely, then glances toward Sal. "I suppose you must have lived here all your life."

"Do I!" Sal responds, lifting her brows high. "Shit!" She cracks one of her increasingly common grins. "I best pat myself on the back then, eh? I must be blendin' in better than I thought. Then I suppose we all look 'n' sound the same to well-bred young ladies." Remarkably, there's no bitterness to her last words. She jerks her head toward Hightower Square, the pristine, rich counterpart to the city square they've departed. "But you don't fancy yourself to be like them," she says, quieter, carrying inquiry.

Eleanor wrinkles her nose a little, and shakes her head. "Well, /I'm/ not from here. I never left home until I came here, so how am I supposed to tell the difference?" Little defensive there. Just a lil. To the last bit, she pointedly looks straight ahead, lifting her chin a little. "I don't fancy myself to be anything," she claims.

"All right, all right," Sal holds her hands up as if to defend against the lady's defensiveness, but seems, in truth, unbothered. She just gives a carefree little laugh. "You 'n' me neither, lady."

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